AT THE END of the training the band dispersed into smaller groups and marched back through the dark streets to the house where Boltfoot had carved the new arquebus stock. From the workshop, they herded through towards the back of the building where there was a refectory with two long tables.
One of the men, some sort of lieutenant to Warboys, who had left the group earlier, grasped Boltfoot by the arm. ‘You see these men, Cooper. They’re a fine-looking bunch, wouldn’t you say?’
Boltoot had seen better, but he had seen much worse. He grunted an affirmative.
‘They were in poor ways when we found them. Him over there –’ he nodded towards a healthy though otherwise unremarkable man of about thirty – ‘he was curled up like a stillborn in the mud by the river, just waiting for the tide to take him. Food and training we gave him and now he’ll happily die for England. Now get some food for yourself. You’ve earned it well today.’
Boltfoot counted near forty men in all. At the end of the large room was a table with two steaming pots. The men collected trenchers from a pile and filed past as two solid-looking drabs ladled out generous helpings of a thick mutton broth and a mash of swede or turnip. Each man was also given a tankard of ale, and then took his place at the table benches and began to eat.
So far, Boltfoot had not managed to have much of a conversation with any of these men. He thought them a dour lot, much less cheery than he might have expected to find aboard a ship.
‘Good fare,’ he said to the fellow on his left.
The man was no taller than Boltfoot and heavy-set with dull eyes. He looked at Boltfoot, said nothing, then returned to his food. Boltfoot shrugged his shoulders and turned to the man at his right. He was of a different cast. His eyes seemed more intelligent than most of those here and he had shared a jest or two out at the Artillery Yard.
‘Well,’ Boltfoot said, ‘leastwise we won’t die of hunger.’
‘Plenty of other ways to die though, ain’t there.’
‘I’m Cooper. By name and calling.’
‘And my name’s my own business, but I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Cooper. You can stand by me in the line of fire any day, for you powder your fine caliver like a proper fighting man and have a good aim.’
‘I should say you have a good aim yourself, Mr No-Name.’
The fellow laughed, then put down his wooden spoon and proffered his hand for Boltfoot to shake, which he did.
‘Where are you from?’ Boltfoot asked at length.
The man looked at him. ‘Why would you wish to know that?’
‘Just making talk.’
‘A man can be too curious, but I think you know that. For what it’s worth, I am from these parts, London-born. I was a cobbler, worked for a shoe mercer in the city. Had a shilling a day, which just about kept my wife and six bairns fed and sheltered. When the mercer died, I looked for work elsewhere, but everywhere I went there was Dutch shoemakers setting up and they only employed their own kind. One by one the children died of hunger or ague, all but one daughter, then my goodwife got took by the pest. So now I mend the boots of the men here and know how to handle a matchlock with the best. I’ll make a better England for the girl.’ He laughed suddenly, with bitter loathing. ‘Look around this room, you’ll hear this story from half the men or more.’
Just then, Warboys arrived at the head of the room. He stood and looked about, then clapped his hands to call the room to attention. Other men had already drifted in during the course of the meal and the place was now packed out, both standing and sitting. There was a strange light, with half a dozen wall sconces flickering shadows back and forth. The room had the expectant, nervy atmosphere of a crowded dog-fighting pit. Spoons stopped clattering against bowls and the men fell silent.
Boltfoot had seen mutinous men before. There had been times enough aboard the Golden Hind with Drake when the crew would happily have slit their captain-general’s throat and taken over the ship, excepting they didn’t have the knowledge or skill to sail her home without the officers and pilot. But this band here, in this crowded room east of the city, was of a different order. He saw that he was surrounded by men so driven by despair that now they had nothing to lose. They had sunk low, as his copesmate at the table had indicated, but now they were disciplined and determined. And they were well armed.
From the side of the room a small figure appeared. For a moment it seemed he had a halo of gold about his head, but then Boltfoot realised it was his hair that glowed in the candlelight. It was a most unusual colour, like the amber that mariners were wont to pick up from the beaches of the Baltic Sea. His eyes, too, were of a similar hue and shone in the shadowy light.
The man wore workmen’s clothes, as did everyone else in this room. Boltfoot knew immediately, from the descriptions given him at the Three Mills and at Godstone, that this was Holy Trinity Curl.
Curl climbed on to a stool so that he overtopped all those present. For a few moments he merely stood there, looking from left to right, surveying his audience, now utterly hushed.
‘It is a fine thing to see so many honest English faces,’ he said at last. His voice was quiet but strong. His words were met by a thunderous round of applause and banging of jugs and bowls on the table.
Boltfoot saw the reaction and joined in, clapping his hands together with the rest. He studied the gaunt, set faces of the men, illuminated by the unsteady light of the candles.
‘We are all here in common cause. We are poor artificers and working men who have seen their fellows and their families starve and die while the strangers who now inhabit this land grow fat and rich.’
Curl’s voice began to rise in intensity.
‘When this century did begin, no vagabonds were seen abroad in England for every man had work to do and food on his table. Now there are twelve thousand sturdy beggars in London alone – and that be the Lord Mayor’s own figure. Sturdy beggars they call them and put them into Bridewell to be shackled and lashed. Sturdy beggars, when all they beg is the chance to do a day’s work and feed their children. And who took their work away? You all know who, for it has happened to you. The dirty strangers of France, the Germanys and the Low Countries. A turd in all their mouths!’
The throng roared its anger. Curl cursed the strangers again and vowed to kill them and their wives and children, in their churches and in their beds. His eyes glared into the flickering gloom. He railed at Egyptians and Jews, at France and Belgia. ‘Their cut-throat merchants undo us all! They take our trade and raise our rents, while our soldiers are sent abroad to the wars – to their wars – to die like dogs for their lands. But we’ll cut their throats. We’ll blow them to dust. We will spill more blood than was spilled at Paris …’
On and on he went, cheered by every man, his voice increasing and becoming hoarse with fury, laying out in painstaking detail all the sins of the foreigners – their importation of foreign goods to undercut the English, their sham religion, their selling of low-priced wares at markets, their secret desire to take over and rule this land.
‘And how is this allowed? Who profits in England to permit this secret invasion of our city and country? The nobles. Aye, the nobles. Did I say noble? There is nothing noble about the upstart Cecils, nor Heneage, nor Howard of Effingham, nor any of the Council or court, save Her Majesty. These pearl-clad courtiers wound their country and their queen for lucre’s sake. Spanish gold and Dutch diamonds, that is what they covet and get from our blood. And yet they had best beware, for our blades are honed and our powder is dry.’
For an hour, he went on, repeating time and again the perceived sins of the strangers, the nobility that allowed them into England, and what would be done against them. At times, his voice calmed and he spoke in measured tones, then it raged like a tempest and his lips were flecked with spit. Finally, he turned to his vision of an England in which all men were landowners and free, where the nobility had been cast down and set to the yoke.
Curl shook his clenched right fist. ‘There shall b
e such an explosion of sentiment in this city that none may withstand it. Tread on a worm and it will turn. I say to stranger and treacherous noble alike, fly! Fly now or die! The time is almost here …’
For a full two minutes he stood erect, fist raised, accepting the frenzied applause of his followers. Some men came up to him and kissed his feet, others shook their hagbuts and daggers in the air. Then he stepped down from his stool and shook the hands of those clustered close to him, including Mr Warboys.
Warboys leant close to Curl and seemed to whisper a few words in his ear, at which Curl nodded. Warboys then looked across to Boltfoot and signalled with his hand for him to come over.
Boltfoot pushed through the mass of men towards the front of the room.
‘This is Mr Cooper,’ Warboys said. ‘He says he is eager to serve you.’
Curl smiled gravely and took Boltfoot by the hand, his amber eyes delving deep, as though looking for his soul. ‘I want no man to serve me, Mr Cooper,’ he said. ‘I want these men to serve England. Drink a gage of good English booze tonight and prepare to pay the blood price when you are called. Are you with us, Mr Cooper?’
Boltfoot grunted. He would rather eat his own balls than fight alongside this man.
‘Mr Warboys tells me you are a skilled woodworker. We have need of such men.’
‘It’s what I do, Mr Curl, and I don’t want to be doing it for no Dutchman.’
‘Then we are as one. Now drink ale and get sleep.’
Curl shook Boltfoot’s hand again, then turned away.
‘There is a dry palliasse for you upstairs, Mr Cooper,’ Warboys said. ‘With the other men. You will be up at dawn and there will be food for you, then work.’
It occurred to Boltfoot that he was indeed a pressed man, if not a prisoner. He could as well get out of this house as he could have removed himself safely from a ship-of-war in the middle of the Western Ocean. At least at sea, he had a vague notion of where he was headed. Here, in this house, trapped, he had no idea what might be waiting on the morrow.
He picked up his blackjack of ale and drank a deep draught. His eyes over the lip of the jug caught another man’s eyes. Their eyes locked. Suddenly a door was opened and a breeze came into the room blowing out half of the candles. Boltfoot’s skin crept with dread. The way the man had looked at him. Did he know him? If so, Boltfoot could not place him. He was a cold-faced, unremarkable man, with dark hair, thick as a horse’s mane, and a mouth so turned down that it was impossible to believe he had ever in his life smiled. Boltfoot looked away.
Had he seen that face before? Had they once been crewmates under Drake? He struggled to find a memory, but could discover none. He gazed again in the direction of the man to seek some clue in his face, but the man had vanished.
Chapter 25
BOLTFOOT’S DORMITORY WAS near the top of the house. Eight straw palliasses were laid out, taking up most of the floor space. At the end of each mattress was a hopharlot, rolled up to use as bedding.
He did not undress but lay down, his caliver and cutlass at his side. All the men had their arms with them. They did not talk much, but took to their beds. One or two smoked pipes as they lay in the dark, awaiting sleep.
Boltfoot was by the wall beneath the window. Ranged alongside him was the man with whom he had eaten his repast.
‘Well, Mr Cooper,’ the man said. ‘What did you make of Mr Curl?’
‘He was as I had thought he would be.’
‘A mighty impressive man, would you not say?’
Boltfoot did not reply. He was wondering how high the window was, whether there was any possibility of climbing out this night. He guessed he must be twenty to twenty-five feet above the level of the street outside. A fall from there would do for him.
‘Well, good night to you, Mr Cooper.’
Boltfoot said nothing. He was thinking of the face among the crowd of men. The more he thought of it the more he began to fancy that he had seen it before. But where? He needed to remove himself from this place without delay.
Jane was still in her daywear and waiting for Shakespeare at the door. ‘Not in bed, Jane? It is near midnight, I believe.’
‘You have a visitor, master.’
‘Who is it?’
‘His name is Mr Bruce. I believe him to be a Scotch gentleman. He invited himself in. He is in your library, sir … I could not prevent him.’
Shakespeare’s hand hovered by the hilt of his sword. ‘Bring us wine, Jane.’ Upstairs, he pushed open the library door. A man lay across the settle, his dusty boots crossed and resting on a red velvet cushion. He had his hands behind his head and was staring idly up at the plasterwork. He turned his head on hearing the door open, but made no effort to rise.
‘Ah, Shakespeare,’ he said. ‘You have kept me waiting.’
Shakespeare’s hand stayed close to the hilt of the sword. ‘Who are you?’
‘Bruce. Rabbie Bruce.’
‘That tells me nothing. Why are you here?’
Bruce swung his legs from the settle and rose languidly to his feet. He was wearing a clan tartan kilt, wound around his shoulder and down to his knees as a skirt. He had a belt about his waist with an animal-skin purse hanging from it. In his stocking there was the haft of a dagger. ‘Take your hand away from your wee sword, Shakespeare. We’re on the same side. Did little Cecil not tell you I would be here?’
‘I still have no idea who you are …’
Bruce raised an eyebrow and looked at Shakespeare as a university tutor might sneer at a doltish student. ‘From the Scots embassy. I am an envoy of King James. We are to work together. Do you English not communicate one with the other?’
Jane arrived with a tray of wine. She was clearly unsettled by Bruce and gave him a wide berth. She put the tray down on the table quickly before bowing to her master and hurriedly making her way out. Shakespeare eyed the man. He was an inch or two shorter than Shakespeare was, yet he looked stronger. He was lean and muscular and seemed to be about Shakespeare’s age – mid thirties – with an air of relaxed assurance. He was clean-shaven with short brown hair. His eyes were dark and seemed to smile, but closer inspection revealed that there was no smile, just a trick of the lines that had started to gather around his high cheekbones.
‘Work together on what, Mr Bruce? Knitting kilts?’
‘You are droll, Shakespeare. We are to find this man who claims himself as the King’s half-brother. The sooner he is rendered dead, the happier I shall be. For while he is at large, every Popish assassin from here to Rome and Madrid will make it his business to kill James and make their impostor king in his place.’
‘It is not my mission to kill any man, Mr Bruce.’
‘Is that so? Well, you do the boy’s work and I shall do the man’s. I shall see this princeling skewered, parboiled and spit-roasted.’
Shakespeare moved his hand from the sword. He poured two cups of French wine, sprinkling a little sugar into each measure. He handed the drink to Bruce, who put it down untried.
‘No time for wine. Work to be done. I am told you were seeking Glebe, the printer of the broadsheet. Have you found him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then let us go to him. Where is he?’
‘Under lock and key. But it is midnight, Mr Bruce, and I have already questioned him. We will not go to him now. I am going to kiss my children in their cots, get five hours of slumber, then return to my inquiries.’
‘I care not a turd for your sleep, Shakespeare. Tell me where the man is and I shall go to him alone.’
‘No, Mr Bruce. Return at dawn and we will discuss a strategy then.’
Bruce showed no sign of taking his leave, nor of letting the matter rest. ‘I am going nowhere. I was promised your cooperation, and I shall have it.’
‘Indeed you shall. On the morrow. I bid you goodnight. Sleep here on the settle if you wish.’ Shakespeare drank his wine and strode from the room, for if he had stayed any longer, he might well have run the Scotsman through.
/>
Boltfoot lay tense beneath the hopharlot, waiting for those around him to drift into sleep. He thought of Jane at home, fearing for him, and he thought of the baby. Never before had he cared much whether he lived or died, for he knew the world would not notice either way. But now … now he needed to stay alive for his wife and for little, helpless John Cooper, just eight months old and beginning to crawl about the floor to his father’s delight.
Soon he heard the heavy snoring of exhausted men. He got up and stood silently for a few moments. If any challenged him, he would say he needed a piss.
No one stirred. A glimmer of moonlight came in through the unshuttered window. He picked up his cutlass and thrust it in his belt, then slung his caliver over his back. Despite his club foot, he could move with surprising agility and grace when required. He picked his way through the slumbering mass of bodies, step by step. At last he was at the doorway and looked out into the stairwell. It was darker there and he could see almost nothing. But he had memorised the number of steps. Nine between each floor, thirty-six in all. He remembered, too, that most of them creaked like an ungreased church door.
Slowly he lowered his weight from stair to stair. He could not eliminate all the sounds of the aged wood, yet he minimised them. The house was noisy even without his footfalls, for men snored and farted on every floor and the old building groaned as it settled into the night. These sounds muffled his own movements.
He reached the first floor. From behind a door he heard the soft voices of two men. He did not move, straining his ears to hear them. He could not make out the words, but fancied they were Scottish accents. Why would there be Scotsmen here? It was difficult to imagine that the men in this house, so zealous in their desire to rid England of strangers, would welcome the presence of those from north of the border. He pushed the thought to one side. There were more important matters at hand.
Boltfoot carried on down the stairs, even more slowly than before. Now he was on the ground floor, in a small hallway between the workshop at the front of the house and the refectory at the back, where they had taken their victuals and heard the address of Holy Trinity Curl. The doors to both rooms were closed. From beneath the door to the refectory, a thin light danced. Had some fool left a candle alight in there, or was the room still occupied? He had to remain silent. He lifted the latch to the door leading the other way, into the workshop. The latch clicked. It was only a little sound, but to Boltfoot it sounded like a clap of thunder.
Prince - John Shakespeare 03 - Page 20
